(29 Moliko 413: The Crossing, Zoluren)
A trembling hand betrays nerves that usually never fail her as the silence threatens to suffocate. The nightmares have come three nights, making them a force that must be faced.
Afraid to sleep lest they return, she is just as scared of not sleeping, lest they become real. To give words to them is to give them even more power, so she says nothing.
And there she waits, between what must not be and what will be, bound into the tapestry of fate as surely as every other mortal. Some things not even a song can right. Old lyrics remind her that she weaves not for herself, anyway.
The roisaen go by as if nothing were amiss. The sun shines somewhere above the clouds, and its light glistens in the moisture on her cheek. She watches the day go by as if she were an observer of her own life, and not a particularly interested one, at that.
There is really no decision to make. She waits for the sunset, for the night; to sleep and face what also waits in the nightmare. It is the only hope left to her. It was never in question.
The question is will she awake.